


Making Conversation-Sandor's Side

by Littlefeather



Series: Conversations from the Roadtrip from Hell [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones Crossover, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Memories, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Love, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same plot as Making Conversation: while on the roadtrip from hell, Arya tries to make conversation with the Hound by sharing personal details of family life with Sansa, this time told from Sandor Clegane's POV. Lots of Sansan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Conversation-Sandor's Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A Season of Poison](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=A+Season+of+Poison).



Between the lack of food and sleep, and the never ending torrential rain plaguing their journey across the Riverlands, the road trip had been dismal indeed. _Life in the Red Keep made me soft, buggering hells,_ the Hound cursed silently as he drew reign on his courser. _Since when did a bit of cold weather bother me?_

Sandor certainly didn’t miss watching over that little inbred shit Joffrey, but as time wore on, he longed for his warm bunk in the Red Keep, the free flowing Dornish sour and the bountiful evening meals and the daily sparring matches that made up his life before the battle of the Blackwater. Now those things existed only in his memories, deepening his regrets and furthering his self-loathing, for all of these recollections were inevitably tied to Sansa Stark.

His despicable behavior toward her that night haunted his days and robbed him of sleep each night.  With all the bloody wildfire, Sandor had let fear and anger get the better of him and he took it out on her, poor little bird. Before he left, he held a knife to her throat and made her sing for him. In his darkest hour, Sandor meant for her to sing a different song for him, too, though no amount of wine could have made him go through with violating her; he was not a monster, he wasn’t _Gregor_.

Still, he could not get Sansa out of his mind. Along with her song, she prayed for him, and touched his cheek, the _burned_ side. She was the first and only woman to do so. And despite the fact that he had just held a knife to her throat, she had offered him a small smile. At first, copious amounts of wine took off the edge, but he had long since run out; with no hope of finding more anytime soon, Sandor’s mood deteriorated markedly as time wore on.

Riding with the little bird’s sister seated sidesaddle across Stranger’s neck only added to Sandor Clegane’s misery. She was sullen, foul tempered and prayed for his death every night. She insulted him and laughed at him every chance she got. She reminded him so much of himself at the same age that it was no wonder people mistook her for his daughter.

The weather worsened, and one night as he listened to the wolves howling across the pass from their cave, Sandor began to wonder if old dead Ned had cursed him from beyond the grave for taking his youngest daughter, as the wolf bitch claimed he had. More like it was that Ned had cursed him for not saving his oldest daughter, who he feared had suffered even further in his absence. _The pretty little bird, still locked in her cage in the Red Keep._

The thought turned his stomach. _I should have hit Sansa with the flat of my axe and made her come along with me like I did this one; but in the end I wanted her to choose me over life in her cage. Bloody fool,_ he thought as he glared at Arya. _I should have taken her with me, whether she willed it or not. Why didn’t I?_ Perhaps it was his inaction with Sansa that made him go through with stealing Arya. When he saw her in the company of those so called Brotherhood without Banners, he knew she was in trouble. Though she was younger and equally well bred, Sandor learned soon enough that Arya was nothing like Sansa. He hardly recognized her at the inn, for she had cut her hair and donned the tattered attire of a squire, and, as he come to learn spending time in close proximity to her, she rarely bathed.

Unlike Sansa, she hardly spoke and when she did, she was neither polite nor shy about saying what she thought.  He preferred her honesty, however, and the man hoped one day the little bird would no longer need to chirp. Sansa’s lies were a matter of survival, he knew, for she clearly was not very skilled at telling untruths; one day he hoped she would be free and straightforward as Arya. Whereas he teased Sansa about her chirping, Sandor mostly remained silent with Arya, since he preferred her quiet to her insults and unflinching honesty.

Her bleak attitude worried him, though, and so occasionally he would make a comment about Sansa. Mention of her sister seemed to perk her up a bit, Sandor noticed. _What I wouldn’t give to have the little bird all to myself instead of the surly wolf bitch_. Unfortunately Sandor knew if he had Sansa, he would have never been able to ransom her. No, he would have kept her all to himself, no matter the cost, just to be able to have her near.

Everything about her was ladylike and a stark contrast to her sister; travelling with her would be infinitely more enjoyable than with her wretched wilding of a sibling. Sandor used to like to watch Sansa ride in the baily of the Red Keep, though all she ever did was make the same familiar loop on her gentle mare. She was born to ride, and when Sansa was in a public place, he could stare at her as much as he liked without anyone noticing.   

 _Sansa is a woman grown now_ , he mused, and there were worse ways to pass the time than having a beautiful maiden with soft hair, womanly curves and lemon scented skin snuggled up to his chest as he travelled through the Riverlands. Her rounded backside would no doubt enticingly rub against his cock with each of Stranger’s steps, he chuckled lasciviously to himself; it would be a pleasurable torture having her ride with him.

No matter how beautiful he found her, though, Sandor would never force himself upon her. The Hound was many things but a rapist he was not. Sandor would have been good to her, aye, better than he had ever treated anyone, just as she had been good to him. Mayhap after a while, the little bird would even smile at him, or perhaps she would place her small hand on his shoulder like she did on the serpentine and give him a song. Perhaps she wouldn’t hate him as much as the wolf bitch did; maybe one day she would even grow fond of him.

Arya’s muttering caught his attention, pulling the Hound from his reverie. She was lying on her side facing Stranger and reciting her shit list, just as she did every night. Determined to give her a sharp rap on the leg, he waited for her to get to his name, but this time she passed him over.

Several times Arya had tried to kill him: weak, ill-timed attempts, truth be told, but it had been a while since she made a move and he remained on guard when with her. It had amused and annoyed him more than anything, and so Sandor merely scared her with his threats, though he wasn’t sure if she had discovered he had no intention of hurting her. He wasn’t in the business of hurting little girls, and if it wasn’t for the hope of a ransom, he would have left her with the kind man at the inn.

Since the Red Wedding, Arya had said very little, and it seemed to him she had resigned herself to his company. She behaved just as Sansa did around Joffrey. As of late, she even made camp and fed the horses, but Sandor was still wary around her; no use getting his throat slit when they were so near the Eyrie.

Suddenly Arya sat up and began mending her breeches. “Where will you go after you ransom me?” Just then the thread broke. Frustrated, she began cursing in a fine imitation of one of his earlier outbursts. _Nothing like the little bird_. He shook his head, suppressing an amused laugh.

“Away,” Sandor spat on the ground. “That’s all you need to know.”

Smirking, Arya shrugged.

 _She’s laughing at me again, stupid bitch._ “You’re not worth spit to me now anyway. I should have let you run into that bloody castle.”

“You should have.” Arya agreed blankly.

Her unfeeling manner alarmed him; it was so like Sansa’s after her father died. He watched her for a moment before he sharply replied, “You’d be dead if I had. You ought to thank me. You ought to sing me a pretty little song, the way your sister did.” _That ought to snap her out of it,_ he sneered while waiting for her comeback.

“Did you hit her with an axe too?” Her eyes wandered over his face disdainfully while her attitude recalled her words earlier in their travels: “I don’t like your face at all. It’s ugly and burned” and instantly the old familiar fury rolled over him. Enraged, the Hound bit his tongue until he tasted blood, trying to hold back his words.

“What sort of song did Sansa sing for you?” Arya’s words caught him off guard.

Pausing, he swallowed down his anger as best he could. That night the sky glowed green with wildfire. Instinctively the Hound raised his eyes toward the night sky. That bloody song. He didn’t want a fucking song when he went to her room; but in her innocence, the little bird had no idea that in his stupor he meant to take _her_ that night. _She prayed for me…_

“Some religious shit about the Mother.”

Drunk and terrified, Sandor had wanted to make her feel things she had never before felt, and he knew she could do likewise to him. He wanted to make her his in body if not in heart and permanently imprint himself in her memory. In the end, though, he could not rob her of her innocence, and his desire to save her overrode his lust.  “Not the song I wanted,” was all he managed to say, the memory bringing a new sense of revulsion over him. Nodding to her needlework, he added, “You’re making a mess of that.”

“I know. Sansa’s the one good with needles-she has very long graceful fingers. Hers are soft, too; she never pricks them.”

Sansa’s fingers were very soft, he remembered, when she caressed the burned side of his face. She held him, stared him in the eyes, shakily offered a smile and prayed for him.  Oblivious to his thoughts, Arya went on. “I’m surprised she didn’t sing one about knights and fair maidens. Florian and Jonquil was her favorite.”

The Hound could not withhold a contemptuous snort. “Aye she meant to give me that one. Don’t know why she didn’t.” His eyes filled with unbidden tears as he spoke, recalling her beautiful face gazing into his own, her abject fear melting into compassion.

 _She didn’t deserve what I did to her,_ he cursed himself. _No wonder she wouldn’t go with me._ After a while, the Hound cleared his throat. “A fool and his cunt says I, when she offered.” _She looked so disappointed. The little bird offered me the only precious thing she had left, her favorite childhood song, and I shit on it like the worthless dog that I am._ He bit his lip again until he tasted blood. “Mayhap that’s why she didn’t.” Turning away, he took a long pull off his flask, trying to drown the remnants of that night in Dornish sour.

“Sansa used to sing all the time, loud enough for the whole castle to hear, especially when she bathed. Is that why you call her little bird? ‘Cause she sings when she bathes?”

Glimpses of Sansa’s nude body from the day Joffrey had her beaten flooded his thoughts and, despite his dour mood, hardened his cock. He had often heard her bathing while standing guard outside her door. That day, Sandor had longed to go in and help her bathe her stripes, comfort and console her. Coughing and sputtering, the Hound finally managed to say, “No, bloody hells.”

Arya eyed him suspiciously. “Then why?”

“Never you mind.” He had no intention of telling her it was because Sansa had learned to chirp the lies of the Lannisters for her survival. “What else?” He asked to get her off the subject.

“Well, she fluttered around like a bird in the bath, I can tell you that. Do you know she could get through five songs before she finished?" Arya shook her head. “She always was one to hog the wash basin, unlike you.”

“Never mind that. Go on.” Damn him to the seven hells, he wanted to hear more about Sansa in the bath. He pictured her beautiful porcelain skin, flushed from the warm water and illuminated by candlelight as she bathed, not in Winterfell, but in _their_ home, hers and his. He could never think of his sweet Sansa as an easy fuck, and as twisted as it was, Sandor would only imagine the physical with her as husband and wife. Did that mean he cared for her? _Your fantasies are getting the better of you. Crazy dog, she’s got you half mad with desire._

“What took her so long?” It wouldn’t do for the wolf bitch to suspect his true motives so he made sure to use the same bored tone he used with Joffrey and Cersei.

An awkward silence followed. “Well she had this lemon soap she never would share that made lots of suds.”

“Lemon, aye, I remember she smelled of them.” Sandor fondly recalled the way Sansa’s fresh scent stood in sharp contrast to the sickeningly heavy perfumes that most of the women wore in court.

“She loves lemoncakes, too. She’d always lick all the frosting off the tops first and then cram the whole thing in her mouth.”

Gods, he saw Sansa do that once, too; her pink little tongue licked all the frosting off the confection before she took the entire cake into her lush mouth. He about spurted in his breeches then and there, imagining it was _him_ she was eating with such relish and he somehow felt guilty about it afterward.

"Disgusting, I know! Anyway, she was real methodical about how she bathed. She even washed her parts in a particular order, you know." Arya shook her head again.

"And what would that be?" He swallowed hard, trying to dispel his most lascivious thoughts as he did so.

“The order? Well, she’d start lathering up at her feet, then up her legs then over her butt and hips, then up to her chest. She has a big chest, you know, too big to shoot a bow and arrow; she needed to be bound all the time.”

Aye, he knew she had lovely, full breasts; he felt them press against his back the day of the riots. Round and luscious, they would fit in his mouth perfectly. Subconsciously he licked his lips and leaned in closer. “Did she now?”

“Yep; she’d hang on to the bedpost in only her pink corset and smallclothes while Septa Mordane tightened her lacings. All her smallclothes were pink, yuck, and you could see through them.”

 _Oh damn me to the Seven hells_ …He remembered her pretty, see-through smallclothes; he had seen them when Joffrey had her stripped; he had seen the pretty thatch of red curls peeking through them, too. A hunger came over him that day that Sandor never thought he would have; he wanted to taste her, to take her into his mouth and pleasure her until she cried out his name… Abruptly Sandor stood and tried to adjust himself without Arya noticing him.

“…so gross and not near warm enough, even inside Winterfell. Every now and then she’d break out of the bindings during the day.” Arya continued seriously. The Hound choked down his laughter. “The boys would tease her and Mother was forever letting out her bodice. I sometimes wonder if that’s why she didn’t like playing.  I hope I don’t take after her shape…I need to be able to do stuff.”

"Almost a woman." He said absently, remembering her saddened expression at his words. It never occurred to Sandor that the pretty little bird had been teased about her lovely body, and now he wished he had kept his thoughts to himself.

“Anyway it took forever to lather and rinse her hair, too. I’d help her. She’d have to bend way back like this,” Arya demonstrated by arching her back deeply.

Another moan escaped his lips while Sandor imagined it was Sansa who was arching her back in front of him. “She’d mend the holes and help me get out the stains in my dresses so Mother wouldn’t be angry with me as payment for my help. She was always a lady.”

“A proper lady.” The Hound nodded and ran his tongue over his lips; that is what drew him to Sansa in the first place.

"The water would be cold when she was done. By the time she got out of the tub, her toes and fingers would be all wrinkled. She’s have goose bumps all over her, too.” Arya snorted.

The night he caught her in the godswood, his eyes had roamed over her goose prickled skin while she fed him some bullshit about praying-whether she was chilled from the night air or from fear, Sandor did not know.

“I’d have to put a fur on her and rub her skin so she’d warm up. Then she’d rub lemon oil all over her body, and sometimes she’d let me use a little, too."

Fuck the Seven heavens; rubbing oil all over Sansa's skin, warming her body with his hands was Sandor's idea of heaven. Her skin surely would be soft and supple under his touch…

“…then jump under the furs as naked as her nameday, no matter how cold a night it was. I just don’t get her.”

The Hound swallowed hard; Sansa, the proper lady, slept naked? This was news to him. He remembered the thin bed gown she wore the morning Joffrey made him get her out of bed; it was sheer and silky soft in his hands, and gave him a breathtaking view of her sweet teats as he lifted in his arms. “Hmph. That so? Naked as her nameday, you say?”

“Yep; crazy, isn’t it?”

 _Not crazy; perfect._ Taken aback, he only managed a cough in response. Sandor would love to snuggle up next to her under the furs on a cold winter night, pull her tight against his chest and cup her firm breasts in his hands. Her pert little backside would likely press right up against his-

“Is Sansa’s hair still to her waist?” Arya almost shouted.

“Aye, last I saw her.” Her hair was the softest thing he had ever touched and smelled of lemons, too; Sandor used to love walking behind her, watching it flow like a silken shawl around her shoulders with each step. “Soft, too. Not like yours.” The Hound took another long drink and shifted in his seat.

“Well, I figured she wouldn’t have to cut it in the capital.”

“No,” the Hound agreed. “She still has the look of a proper lady. Not like you.”

“You said that already.“ She rolled her eyes at him. “Say what you want but I’m so glad mine is brown and short like Jon’s. Sansa could never hide with her hair that color. It grows red everywhere, you know, not just on her head but even- “

 _Fuck me sideways, the wolf bitch surely isn’t going to describe her sister’s bush, is she?_ _This is too much…_

Grunting, the Hound stood abruptly and walked away from camp, his hardened cock making each movement painful. He had denied himself both whores and pleasuring himself the entire time he had been with Arya, thinking it inappropriate and not wanting to scare her, but after listening to her descriptions of his beloved little bird, he could take it no longer. _Perhaps if I walk far into the woods for a bit after she’s asleep_ , _it will be alright_. Reaching in his bag, he searched for a rag.

“-even her eyebrows are red.” Arya shouted, her voice sending shooting pain through his wine addled head. _Fuck she’s got the voice of a banshee._ “She’s got freckles, too, in the oddest places.”

 _Mother Maiden and Crone…“_ Oh, aye? Freckles?”  Sandor recalled seeing a sprinkling of them across her shoulders and on her thighs when her sleeping shift fell away from her shoulders the day he lifted her out of bed.

“Yes, on her shoulders, on the inside of her thighs and on her low back, too, right above the dimples on either side of her-“

How many times had he imagined running his hands over her fine body, down her back, over her rounded backside as he brought himself to completion? But freckles on her fair skin? That was too much for the man to handle, for the Hound loved freckles as much as he loved red hair and this bit of detail further aroused him, painfully so.  Pouring water from the canteen over his face, Sandor rubbed his hands over his face and tried to clear his thoughts.

“Enough.” He groaned out.

“What’s the matter? Dinner not sitting well?” Arya called after him.

“Go to sleep, wolf bitch, and leave me be,” Sandor called as he headed into the woods; the last thing he needed was for her to follow him. Mayhap if he let her think he needed to use the privy, she would leave him be. “I need privacy, understand? I’m off to the woods. Stay were you are else I’ll hog tie you.”

“There’s no water that way. Go uphill of us.”

 _Why the fuck is she talking about water?_ “Take a wash while you’re gone, will you? I’m sick of your stench.”

“Bugger that. Bugger you.”

After he took care of his needs, Sandor washed in the icy river, trying desperately to cool his lust. As he dressed, a man jumped him from behind, biting him on the neck. Just before the Hound snapped his neck, the man told him that Lord Tywin put a bounty on his head, and that the little bird, now married to Tyrion, had escaped the wedding feast as the king lay dying _. Good on her; she shit on the Imp’s head and flew away._

But where would a little bird like her go? If she took to the woods, it wouldn’t be long before she ran into men worse than him. The rest of the night, Sandor tossed and turned as he lay worrying about Sansa, cursing himself for the thousandth time that he didn’t take her with him, all the while wondering if he should go look for her.

 _The wolf bitch would no doubt be happy to see her sister_. _Perhaps I could ransom both of them, and then steal the little bird away from the Eyrie after it was done,_ he thought wildly. When the sun began peeking over the mountains, the Hound had made up his mind; he had told her he would keep her safe once, and this time, he was determined to see his promise through. He would find her, keep her safe, and keep her for his own.

The next morning, the Hound kicked Arya at first light. “We make for the Eyrie. For your aunt. I heard the little bird escaped the Red Keep. Might be she’s there.” He had no idea why he felt the need to explain it to her, but at his words, the wolf bitch scampered up and hurriedly packed her things.


End file.
